


Superkid

by lovesicksidekick



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Scott Needs A Hug, teen wolf / dc crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-11 22:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19552285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesicksidekick/pseuds/lovesicksidekick
Summary: In a world of supervillains showing up on the news daily, Stiles Stilinski is no superhero.Everyone knows that. His mom knew that, Lydia Martin knows that, his teachers know that, and he's starting to give up on his childhood dreams of super-training montages. He had craved popularity, or at the very least craved being recognized as a relatively cool guy, for as long as he's been alive. Maybe obsessively so.Luckily for his superhero obsessions, Stiles Stilinski's best friend might be. The problem here? His best friend Scott sees the spandex pants, the violent battles, the stress, and he says to all that superhero garbage: no thank you. A big fat no to that. Where does that leave Stiles? God, Beacon Hills isn't the only town with criminals. Far from it. Scott's help is very much needed, yet no amount of convincing can go past him. All Stiles has left to do is, well... leave a long, long trail of very poor decisions, a very worried father, and make up a decidedly uncool superhero name for himself.





	Superkid

**Author's Note:**

> He can care about both Scott and Batman right now, he decides. They both need him. 
> 
> Mostly Scott though. Yeah, okay, Scott wins this one.
> 
> // chapters will be on the messy side of things. i have two more chapters i'm editing. kudos = faster chapters! <3 this is nowhere near finished, and the format, or backstories might slightly change. stay tuned! ❤ no expectations of regular updates, but definitely loving this one :)

Stiles Stilinski is no superhero. By anyone's standards. Ask anyone really, and they'd say that if anything, he's a sidekick at best. At 17, he's not sure there's ever anything for him in life that doesn’t include him being a background character to his own life.

But really, he should've been grateful for the peace of mind.

This is how it starts: he's still in pre-school, minding his business with his best buddy Scott that day at the beach, struggling to make his baby fingers build a sand castle while Scott's mom reapplies his sunscreen on his little nose. They're old enough to know their own names, their favorite snack, and the ideal time for a daytime nap, but not much else. He eyes Scott's dad, Rafael McCall, on the phone, his pants rolled up half-way, enough that he can put his toes in the tides. He's pacing back and forth, and his tie is crooked. The only thought Stiles can manage then, at 5 years old, floaters on his arms, eyes watering from the salty air, is that he looks a hundred years old, and maybe he's the president. He starts digging into the sand with his shovel, wiping his brow the way only a hard-working toddler does.

“Okay, I can't deal with your mood-swings right now, Melissa.” Stiles looks over and he hadn't noticed Scott was in the shallow waters now. Scott’s mom had a tight expression and a finger pointed at her husband’s chest still, but it faltered with her husband’s tantrum. “You're batshit crazy.”

“This was supposed to be a vacation, and look at you! Going through my texts, calling my work, insulting my son to my face – our son, Raf.” She seems more sad than angry. Her hands are through her hair, and Stiles can already smell the shampoo she uses, and he knows if he makes any upset noise she'll brush his hair to soothe him, like he's her own kid. She's his mom too in his heart anyway. His other mom. The voices are loud, and his ears hurt. He's sweaty, bored, and not understanding that many grown-up words. He just knows he wants more juice, and some hot-dogs.

“He ruined our marriage! Having him was a mistake. You’re just another mother now, not the wife I knew.” Rafael is talking so fast he's out of breath, “You used to be beautiful, you used to be smart, now look at you... just an old harpie. Why are you even taking all these nursing lessons? Being a mother is not enough for you? You're sucking us dry, Scott and I.” His mouth shuts, his lips shaking. He's crossed way more than just one line. He's crossed many, many lines, all at once. For someone in the FBI, he's not so good at staying calm in close combat.

“Don't, Rafael.”

There's something in the air that starts feeling humid, and warm. Stiles wipes his hands full of sand on his shorts.

“Mel,” he says, but it's pleading. He sounds like a different man, and he repeats it, as birds fly from the tree behind it. Stiles, so small, calls for Scott, but Scott's too busy trying to catch tiny fish in the waves and humming nonsense songs. As Stiles tries to take off his bright orange floaties with his small hands, much too warm for them, he stifles a cry as a huge water wave crushes on him. He makes disgruntled noises, Scott nowhere to be seen. In a sigh of relief, he hears his friend laughing at him from afar, and turns to see him swim to the shore and run into his mother’s arms. She raises a hand, and presses a finger to his forehead. His eyes close into a deep sleep. For such an energetic kid, he was now asleep on his feet and she grabbed him into her arms. The sand underneath her feet seemed to move in a clockwise motion around her, and Scott started levitating with her. She did not spare a glance at him, staring her husband down. Her eyes seemed to turn an odd color, so odd it was hard to describe even for an adult brain. Almost white, blueish, yet otherworldly swirls took place within the iris. The air seemed to emanate from her as her feet dangled in the air.

How strange, he would have said if older, but his mind only allowed him to clap his hands in exclamation. Superman, Scott’s mom is Superman, he tells his dad later to no avail. Stiles gets up on his little legs as fast as he can, and hobbles along towards them, pressing his head onto Melissa’s leg and tugging at her hand. Her hand frees itself and rests on his head, patting his hair. She was higher off the ground to him than usual, and he jumped a few times, before sitting uselessly on the sand. He did not have the attention span for anything, no matter how surreal.

“Don’t let it get to you, honey,” his voice shook like a leaf, as did his hands still held up.

Seeing fear turn into desperation in her husband, Melissa’s voice gained a pleading tone as well. The air got less heavy for a minute, and her feet almost touched ground.

“I’m tired, Rafael.” She motions towards the loaded car. “We’re all tired.”

To that, he seems to regain some dignity, dusting off his ego.

“Even a woman like you can see some sense, huh. Yes, let’s get you home. I’m tired,” he echoed, and that is the drop that tipped the glass.

“A woman like me.”

It takes a second for Rafael McCall to realize that was he assumed was defeat in her was nothing of the sort. He doesn’t have time to plead. Vibrations start, and Stiles is still crouching, mostly now to play with some rocks that are hovering and bouncing slightly off the ground. The warmth in the heavy summer air gets stronger, and stronger. Rafael’s face gets sweaty and red, strained, and Melissa’s eyes get less humanoid as seconds pass by.

Melissa’s voice seems to echo, deeper than Stiles had ever heard, as if possessed. “You will fight me no more, human,” she hovered closer, “no powers,” Rafael now was lifted as well, and his noises gained a desperate edge, “powerless, far away, unseen and unheard from our kind. Sealed in a human city much like this one. Harmless.” She opened her palm and in red smoke, a strange rock appeared. It flew up over Rafael’s head, and bright light shone on him. As an UFO would, one may describe. To Stiles, a toddler, he was reminded of a disco ball.

“Melissa, this isn’t you. This won’t work, remember?”

A part of Melissa, of this being, let itself sound more like she used to, and she spoke firmly, as though to confirm this really was her. 

“Do not be afraid. Krypton doesn’t need you anymore. This won’t hurt.”

“Honey, Lois,” a weak excuse started, a foreign name, “Mel,” he added, imploring, and Stiles swore that the anger rising on Rafael’s face made his hands glow red and that he started levitating too. It was hard to see. It was as though he was strong too, but knew she was much stronger. So unlike what had happened earlier verbally between them.

Rafael had no more chances.

The wind grew wild as strong ringing began, and a sharp noise reverberated throughout the beach, pulling people down onto the sand like wind would. Stiles had not noticed, and never would thinking back on it, but the people had been frozen in time. A child had a frisbee in one hand, a foot in the air preparing to throw, and a dog was in the air about to jump into the water. Women on the shore had open mouths, still laughing with drinks in their hands, frozen in motion. No one had seen any of this.

Noises felt heavy and wrong, like a train was approaching. Stiles’ hand pokes his earring aid, slaps at it childishly, repeating “bad, bad, bad ears” softly, but he feels two hands gently coming to rest on his ears just in time for what felt like the world exploding. His eyes can’t stay open as white light brightens. Then an horrid sound, like a grenade or some sort of strong electricity. Rafael McCall disappears into what seems like time itself, glitching into the air, transported.

By the time he looks up, everything is so still, so quiet. Melissa finally touches ground, as light as a fairy, relief on her face. “Mommy, rocks can fly,” Stiles says, but the big words are like a potato in his mouth. The sun makes him sleepy. He is too young to process any of this. He raises his hands up, and soundly falls asleep in Melissa McCall's arms, joining Scott, still wet from the waters, both mumbling themselves to sleep in the crook of their mother's neck. 

There is the sound of sirens somewhere far, far away. People begin moving again, looking at each-other, dumb-founded. The three of them are home before any witnesses begin questioning things. This is Beacon Hills, after all, a real nest of mysteries. Melissa McCall resumes her life as a suburbian mother without blinking an eye. Shaken, but convinced her kid and his rowdy best friend are too young to remember any of it. Swearing to make sure of it.

No, Stiles Stilinski is no superhero, but deep down, he might know someone who is.

*

He loves school, but school doesn't love him back. That never really changes.

He's 12 years old, and his newest best friend Erica is in detention with him. They're huddled over some bad doodles and it's almost raining outside, muddy shoe stains all over the classroom floors. He's Batman, she's Robin. He likes her a lot, her big purple glasses, her uneven, blue braces. For the life of him he cannot understand why people hate her acne, because all it does is make her face redder when she's chatting about things she loves. Like her passion's literally rising in her cheeks. She always has the coolest ideas. All week, she's been talking about how she wants to be a superhero so she can impress Alison, the rich girl, into coming to her house for a sleepover -- she says no other girl is invited though, and definitely no boys. But she's also busy studying for her exams, which she missed in her last hospital stay. Her new seizure medication is helping so much, and she's always been so smart that he isn’t worried about her having missed a few days. She wants to become a lawyer, or something. Stiles, for his part, has no clue what to do with his life. He sort of wants to be a teenager forever. He wants to be in detention and have friends by his side forever.

Boyd, Erica's other best friend, is in the next seat, and he's laughing under his breath. Boyd's got a really pretty smile Stiles thinks, the kind that magazine models would have, or the love interests of good-looking girls in soap operas.. He inherited a lot of cash from his heritage, but right now he lives with Erica, temporarily. Only because Erica’s parents knew Boyd’s dad from college and are middle-class enough to afford it. Every boy needs a forever home, Stiles think. It’s the saddest thing to him. He keeps mentioning his dad helping take care of him, of him and Stiles being brothers, but Boyd is too polite. Maybe it’s too presumptuous this early in their friendship. But his dad's a security guard, so not quite a detective, but he knows how to keep people safe... at the bank, anyway. He would definitely keep Boyd safe and well-fed, be a good dad, and not ask for rent money. But the more he asks Boyd, the quieter he gets, which is the last thing he wants and the last thing Boyd needs this year. He's been laughing less lately, since his parents died of what classmates call “a freak accident,” so all Stiles has been doing is trying to rope him into an awkward friendship. They had sat next to each-other in class forever, anyway, and it was about time someone did something about it, he thinks as he draws worse and worse to make Boyd laugh again. He also comes from the big city, which is always fascinating to young Stiles Stilinski. He only ever escaped Beacon Hills during school breaks and his father had no plans to ever move out from the town he was born in. Beacon Hills was at least expanding this year, still not a huge city, but already more of a city than a town. People from bigger cities now came to have easy access to more busy places without the heavy traffic, and still get to live a city life. Shocking if you think of Beacon Hills’ small-town roots, of how there had been dirt roads not that long ago. It's puny compared to Arkham City, or New York, but there's less trees and more buildings than ever before… whether that’s a good or bad thing had been heavily debated. Of course, it’s theoretically wrong. But he's not one for nature, and he loves going to new stores, no matter what his dad tells him about capitalism and gentrification. He pretends he doesn't know what those words mean -- he's just 12, other 12 year olds don't backread the dictionary like he does. He is not going to get into a logical argument with his dad, not until he’s at least 15. And he still wants that new big-brand ice cream place opening up next summer, so screw it, he loved capitalism.

It's already an hour into detention and he's only finished one serious sketch of how he would look as Batman, but that's pretty good for his hyperactive brain, and he's smugly showing it off to whoever will look at it. Batman and Robin are the biggest rage at their school. Especially after a sighting on TV of them fighting The Alphas, a group of Beacon Hills' most stringy supercriminals. Their outfits being wolf-themed still did not make Stiles scared, and he was surprised anyone could take them seriously. Yeah, they burnt a public bus last week, where people inside barely made it out, and they scare off grandmas in stores, he tells his class, but where's the horror movie villains? These villains are stupid. He could definitely take one or twelve. His dad has a gun. Yes, it's a taser gun, but so what? Cops these days are more evil than villains, and his dad's cooler than any military soldier. He used to do martial arts to impress Stiles’ mom, for God's sake, that's a hero backstory right there. They have weapons, money? Whatever it is, they need to be stopped. Everyone's too coward for it. 

He doesn't tell them how he begs his dad to go to the doctor every time he has the flu, or a headache, or cramps, because what if? You can never be sure. Or how he hasn't slept in a year. That’s simply his super-hero super-secret backstory. Not a tragic backstory, mind you. Tragic backstories were reserved for dark, brooding, handsome, introverted guys. Like Boyd. He never would want to undermine Boyd’s tragic storyline, although it felt wrong to call it that. Too soon, maybe? He was still learning to be a good friend to him and not turn everything into a metaphor or a movie reference. He struggled with expressing emotions, at time -- since his mom died everything about him felt bitter and sarcastic in uncomfortable ways. This was why he wasn’t scared of dying from super-villains: he would rather die from a cool sword than dying slowly from something like poison. Poison was just sad. Either way, no one needed to know about his pitiful back-story. Too many people knew already and it never brought him any good, except for the nice old woman who worked as a school therapist. She gave him something to calm his brain, and didn’t mind him moving his hands a lot, so she was a good cookie in his eye. But his story was not one to be written about in comic books, nor in regular books, he was sure of it. He had no weaknesses.

The only thing -- person -- that was ever a weakness to him is Lydia Martin, after all, and Lydia Martin is at her fancy private school too far away to affect him. He doesn't talk about Lydia Martin more than 3 times a day anymore anyway, he's over it. He knows that even with her scholarship her dad broke his back to pay for it, so she had a chance to get into a proper university, what with that big brain of hers. But he's pissed. The “L + S” heart-shaped doodles he draws now are pointedly in his worst, cheapest markers, because Lydia will deserve fine things once she comes back from her Gotham phase and stops talking trash about Beacon Hills. Her father, Chief Inspector Gordon works in Gotham now, and he takes public transit, mind you, but it's Lydia's dream to move there permanently despite how expensive it is. And yet she is not a rich or even middle-class girl. He bought her a discounted pizza at a place she hated a month ago, and she was excited about the free soda because her mom's pantry was empty again. He had to pretend to run into her and mysteriously have pizza on him, and she didn't eat it with him or in front of him, but there you go. And her wheelchair's wheels are so old and creaky everyone can hear her a mile away, something he knows she hates more than she lets on. And the hair product she uses is under 2$. Yes, she looks great, but come on, Lydia, a voice in his head complained. What does Gotham have to offer that he can’t? That Beacon Hills can’t? 

Erica, bless her soul, has been his classmate long enough to know not to feed into his fire and only nod when he talks about it without answering or asking anything. Teenage love is dangerous territory, she's well aware. He's been ignoring Lyd's calls twice before picking up, and she hasn't mentioned the change, but he's sure Lydia is picking his drift, and will come back to his middle-of-nowhere small-scale city soon. This is totally rational and to be expected, of course, since he's had a crush on her since he was 10 and it had already been 2 years of her mocking him and their on-and-off little romance. For a 12 year old, this was getting serious. Lydia needed to get herself together, already. He'll get a summer job in no time, and she'll be so rich right here in Beacon Hills with him,, and he'll touch her hair this time, for real. Maybe give her a necklace pretty enough she'll kiss his cheek, too. Not to get too ahead of himself -- he’s still reeling from her calling him first and maintaining contact with him because, in her own words, “she's bored, and Alison doesn't have enough data.” Something she had never done before. Yes, she only calls now to ask about Alison, but that's beyond the point. If he doesn't breathe too heavy into the phone or brag about himself too much, she says goodbye before hanging up. He tries so hard not to ask her how Gotham is, if she's happy, if people touched her chair without asking again (a criminal act, in his opinion), if her dog Prada hated the drive there, if she likes looking at the stars, if she ever thinks of him... what perfume she uses too, so he could finally stop going to pharmacies sneakily spraying samples all over himself. Does she know how many showers he's had to take, every weekend since she left? Lydia Martin could make his life so much easier, she just chooses not to in that princess way of hers.

Last year, his Valentine's card didn’t even get a second glance. His dad says she's just waiting for him to get facial hair, and honestly that's a low blow coming from his own father -- men don't have rights to judge boys. Boyd be his witness, he spent a week straight in school drawing a fake beard on himself and getting laughed at thanks to that one vile comment, until his dad relented and propositioned another theory: she’s simply shy. He gets mild ink poisoning from the whole ordeal. Maybe this is why Batman is so grumpy in live shows, because he's woken up at the break of dawn and spent three hours in his dad's cabinet struggling to paint a beard with eyeliner, only to end up sick. Not even sick enough to skip algebra class, obviously. 

Well, at Beacon Hills Middle School, apparently, there were strict rules in algebra class, and in any class at that. Jumping up and down when getting a question right was a big no-no. So was passively throwing erasers at other kids when they get it so, so wrong, which in his mind was just constructive criticism. Everyone was so slow, after all, but always judged him for being slow at all. They never trusted his judgement or his efforts, always thought he was cheating if he did good or not trying at all if he failed. He was then, sure enough, stuck as a C+ student. Barely passing, yet not failing either. As that one classmate of his with a southern accent would say, nonsensically: f it was a question of heaven or hell, he would be in Idaho. He was apparently both too much, and not enough in school. “He just needs to get bit by a radioactive spider and he'll be all set, with a crazy brain like his,” his first grade teacher told his dad at the parents-teachers meeting. “Be worried. He's dumber than a bag of bricks, has no self-control, no skills, can’t remember anything, pure disrespect. Keep being soft on him, you’ll have a 40 year old burger flipper in your hands in no time.” 

Burgers, huh. He doesn't get that whole deal. Erica's father is a cook, and he's not loaded, but he's happy. Adults worried about the stupidest things, the older a kid gets. It was ridiculous.

Of course, his dad was not too happy with that teacher. He spoke one too many adult words for his son’s so-called innocent ears, making the old teacher guy wince and apologize profusely. He also bought Stiles the biggest burger, so it felt like a victory for his teacher to have been wrong, and didn’t stick to his self-esteem too much.

“Mic- Mica- Mikesl- Stilinski, your dad called. Get out.”

This is followed by weak laughter from his few detention pals, and he hugs Erica, twice even, sneak-attack hugs Boyd, and gets the hell out of dodge. He brushes his hair out of his face, pretty short, but long enough he pulls it up in a bun at the top when he studies, like Alison does. He takes his hormone blockers out of his pocket and slams them in his mouth like mints, and his ADHD meds too, though struggling a bit more to swallow. He pops actual gum too, and chews to wash the taste out.

His dad's not even at the school principal's office when he checks, so he just runs down the hallways, giggling at how illegal it is, letting his shoes slide at the end. Isaac Lahey sees him and whoops, from the chair he's sitting outside his class, probably having caused mild mayhem again. He flips him a thumbs up. He half falls into lockers a few times, which Lahey definitely saw, but he's just glad his dad remembered to get him in time. He might be strict, but even he remembers his son's birthday. He made sure not to tell any of his friends though, because then tomorrow he can have an after-birthday and those are just as good. More sneaky, too. Twice the gifts!

He gets to the car and high-fives his dad, does the obligatory birthday twirl, singing “Who's birthday is it? Mine!” while high-fiving himself in an especially obnoxious fashion.

“Alright, kiddo, don't strain yourself. In the car, Stiles.” Except he pauses, looks around, “Or maybe not.” He scrolls through his phone for a second, his face the face of a middle-aged guy who has no clue what technology is. “Why don't you go get Boyd too?”

“Can I bring Erica Reyes too? Please, dad?”

“Why not. You're the birthday boy. C'mon,” his smile is tired, but he's ruffling his hair, patting his son's chest once in an “off with you” way where his binder ties down everything awkward, puts his own hat on Stiles’ messy head and watches his boy run back inside the building. Always fast, always hurried, always on the go. There's a long drive ahead.

Birthday boy, birthday boy, birthday boy, Stiles sings in his head. His head. Boy. Yep, still feels really nice. He wonders if his mom would've loved the name Stiles, or if the other, older forbidden name in S would always be on the tip of her tongue. If she'd say daughter before she said son, until she caught herself. If she'd even still see him as anything at all. Maybe she'd call the hormone blockers a drug. Maybe she doesn't matter anymore. Maybe she never really did, he thinks, before catching himself. That's just mean, to talk badly of her. It's not like she never tried as a mother at all. On her death bed she tried to be there, she tried to make him feel loved, more than she ever did before that. He should be grateful. She tried. By god, she tried.

Maybe that makes it worse. It was hard not to let his thoughts stray to negativity on a birthday, especially running down the quiet corridors. He still didn’t let his smile falter for too long.

The night is so dark, but in a pleasing way, aesthetically, and by Mr. Stilinski's very high standards of perfect road-trip conditions. They'll arrive at the break of dawn, and Boyd seems to be happier and happier the closer they get. He talks more, too, a nice surprise. The city is full of both his worst and best memories, he says, but it's home. He can't live in Gotham anymore or be there for more than a week without feeling sick and catching what his doctor calls flashbacks here and there, but he gets giddy whenever he visits somewhere just as big, if it's short and sweet. Big cities have an air to them, like you're a nobody in a sea of thousands, yet on top of your own little world. They drive down the highway until they're halfway to Metropolis, and there's so much teenage singing in the car that Noah Stilinski looks like he's on a whole other plane of existence, probably thinking of bills or god knows what adults think about, just to make it through the trip. There is a small smile somewhere too, though. So maybe he's just enjoying the moment in his own way.

That Sunday evening, his hand waving into the rushed air of the rolled down window, Stiles Stilinski, 12 year old, figures out what superhero name he would want, if the opportunity came, if he wasn't so boring, and his mother wasn't dead, and his hearing aid wasn't so old and making him suck at school, which as far as he knows are the only things holding him back.

It's short, stupid, childish, and so perfect. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't tell anyone, just holds it close to his chest. Sometimes, when he feels weak, he likes to pretend his life is like a superhero movie. A protagonist wouldn't reveal something so important so soon. Especially not a superhero.

Turns out, he needed that name more than he thought. For different reasons.

*

Scott McCall is a small-town nobody getting to explore wherever he wants. How he got to do so much adventuring at such an early age, is all thanks to his mother. Everything he has, really, is thanks to his mother.

His mother is a nurse, with enough knowledge to be called a doctor, who had travelled across the world to give medical help to whatever cause she was into that week in her early adulthood. Which makes it sound impulsive, almost taking charity cases out of pity, but Melissa McCall was far from that -- having lived in Mexico with her poorer side of the family for most of her life, seeing how urgently free, accessible medical help was needed with her own two eyes. She immigrated near Gotham when she was in her early twenties, her out-of-wedlock baby in her arms, planning to study medicine somewhere with more options. She only made it properly into Gotham through work, sweat, and tears. She didn't get to pursue any of her dreams until she was in her late 30s. Her younger self would've never guessed that. Yet she made it to Gotham, dated Rafael McCall, who was the best lawyer in Gotham. She learned English, and she worked for years after her divorce to afford her nursing lessons, to prove her ex-husband wrong, and prove herself right. If that girl back in Mexico knew of her own future, she would have probably made a lot more dumb, impulsive decisions to come here sooner. Especially knowing that this wouldn't make her baby unhappy, or unhealthy, or detached from his own culture. Knowing he would make friends in USA, and grow so smart and kind-hearted. It was no wonder she took him under her wing when he wanted to pick up travelling again.

Scott got to travel very far, only when he turned 14 after years of begging. Melissa had stopped travelling for herself after the divorce and well, Scott happening. She had rented a condo in some suburbs somewhere quiet, not quite in Gotham, less expensive yet technically still in it. He grew up Gothamian. Gothamarian? Gothic? One of those. He was a kid from Gotham, either way. He had heard stories of her bringing him as a toddler all over the Earth, and having been too young to remember them was killing him when he turned 14. Hearing about Stiles' amazing teen years, with his scholarship and his pretty girlfriend, he wanted to have something to write about for once. His school sucked, Gotham sucked, he wanted them to go wild and thrive before she decided to buy them a house for real to then be stuck with a mortgage. There wasn’t much to say against it when adventure ran in Melissa McCalls’ veins and she had never fully settled in Gotham -- not emotionally, or interpersonally.

His mother coincidentally found oversea work and their apartment lease ended soon after. Stiles understood, because Stiles would've joined in a heartbeat if it wasn't for his busy life already. He didn't worry about Stiles, because Stiles had it all. He went to Australia, India, Finland, France, Ireland, Sweden... he stopped counting. He was doing great in school too, homeschooled by such a smart woman. The smartest teacher he had ever known, except maybe for his old favorite from Beacon Hills.

He was 16 now. Sweet 16.

The anniversary of 2 whole years that very day. 24 months. A 16th birthday which, coincidentally, Scott shared with a certain Stiles Stilinski. His best friend, brother, and recent pen-pal. The one who saw all his most embarrassing phases, and knew him best. Most of all, the one who taught him how to whistle, how to beat everyone at Mario Kart, how to tie his shoes, and yes, how to talk to girls. (He just hadn't gotten around to that one yet.)

His mother and him had talked about going back to America for the summer since the last summer had Scott moody and lonely, itching with homesickness. Maybe 16 is when adulthood starts edging on you? Was he becoming a man? Manhood seemed more uncomfortable than he thought it would. He would take boyhood anyday.

He walks up to Stiles Stilinski’s house with stars in his eyes, travel-worn, almost asleep. His snow boots are in his bag, unused now, and his glasses are crooked from carrying his luggage with him. The window lets out smells of food and he wants the warmth to hug him tight. Of course he’d end up here first. Where else was home? His mother was at some cafe with her old nursing friends, certainly bringing them to their house for evening gossip and tea, so the night was his. His and Stiles. The plane flight had him nauseous, but nothing that a nap couldn’t fix right before dinnertime.

He rings the bell and yells, “Claudia? Is Claudia here?” through the door screen, open wide in warm summer weather, only to meets a very disgruntled: “That's Mrs. Stilinski to you,” except it's a much deeper voice, a familiar voice.

His first instinct is to say, “Sorry, Mrs. Claudia,” like he's used to, her reminding him she's his teacher. Then it sinks in. Mrs Stilinski, first of all, was never her name to begin with. She was never married to Mr. Stilinski, she knows, because she sold her engagement ring when they broke up. It wasn't even technically a divorce, really. It sinks in more. Claudia's long, permed blonde hair is nowhere in sight, the doorway doesn't have the same carpet, her yellow jean jacket isn't hung up, and the house doesn't smell like lavender anymore, like it did every single one of Stiles' birthday, when she would drive him along to visit her son. It didn't smell like home.

Noah Stilinski had expected an inexperienced mailman trying to give mail to his dead wife, not a boy he never saw grow up that old. His eyes seem stuck looking up and down at how tall he's become, how lankier, the acne, the slight facial hair, and the hair itself, the huge mop of hair. Same eyes, though.

Scott had spent 3 years fucking off God knows where when he learns that Stiles' dad, the father of his best friend, got back together with his ex, marrying her, only for her to fall deadly sick and die. But not before writing in her will that her house is to be owned by her son, and paying it in full. Scott is 16 years old when he learns that the reason it's Claudia Stilinski now is because Mrs. Claudia wanted to die a Stilinski, and make it right this time. He's much, much older when he learns that she wasn't all she pretended to be, and she didn't deserve his respect, or his memories, but right now he thinks of the Mrs. Claudia that Stiles is very much trying not to miss. The good parts of Mrs. Claudia.

Mrs. Claudia, the one who babysat Scott when mom was busy with school, Claudia, his mom's only friend in Gotham after her divorce, the only woman who could make her smile again. She taught Scott he wasn't dumb, just needed more time, and that he wasn't slow, just a little too passionate. She, a teacher, stopped the bullying he went through, when he was too shy, too weird, without his only friend. Bringing him surprise lunches at school when she'd arrive, with a pencil in her hair, cancelling all his detentions because “you're not a bad kid, McCall,” pushing him into being homeschooled, so he could travel with his mother, and learn at his own pace for once.

When they were both barely 10, she lost custody, and Stiles moved in with his dad far, far from him, but she stayed. Noah Stilinski was in Metropolis, the big city, bigger than Gotham even. Even further from him than Beacon Hills.

She was the reason Scott could still see his best friend, when his dad left, so it didn't hurt as bad. His friend was far, but he made do. Sending letters. Daily phonecalls. Scott would spend every winter in Beacon Hills at Mrs. Stilinski's house, when his mom would go back to Mexico for the holidays, and Stiles was at his mom's for the holidays too. Stiles was 100% worth it. And Mrs. Stilinski made it possible.

He doesn't expect Stiles' dad to be in that house, his ex... whatever they were. His son's mother's house. They hadn't been on good terms. They only did the occasional, necessary “are you keeping him this weekend” talk on the phone, and usually through voicemails.

He doesn't even expect Stiles to be in that house. Stiles, in his head, was in Metropolis now, with his cool dad, in his much better private school, with his girlfriend Lily, or something. Lorna? She had red hair. He was fully prepared to ask Mrs. Stilinski to drive him to Metropolis from Beacon Hills, in her old car reeking of perfume, like she used to on Stiles' birthday when she missed him too much, or even in between those, and he'd asked to hop along if he didn't have exams. He doesn't really have time to smile at his best friend in the whole world before his mind catches up, and he sees candles with pictures of her, and the words “in memory of” in big bold words, in the hallway. His mouth just hesitates and his lips just shake a bit instead.

He's 3 years older than he should've been when he learns that everything Stiles ever wrote in his letters wasn't really true, and he'd been living vicariously through Scott's adventures, while moved in Beacon Hills, in his mother's house, grieving. He's 16 years old when he asks why Stiles never told him.

Stiles hugs him and says: you loved her too.

He's crying, sobbing really, because he's a sympathetic crier, and also because he can't stop thinking of how Stiles must've felt, and it feels like he's not crying his own tears anymore despite what Stiles said. His dad had given her his last name when they got married again, right before she died, because she wanted to be forgiven in death. They didn't invite anyone. She knew she wasn't going to last a year.

*

There's a reason Stiles never brought it up.

So much of Beacon Hills has changed. His own best friend had changed. Maybe they both had changed without letting the other see it. Scott’s life was so sheltered in Stiles’ mind.

Couldn’t the same be said of Stiles? Neither knew the other as well as they thought.

Scott’s father? The one he brags about? Was abusive.  
His father to begin with? Not his birth father, his step-father. Never wanted to be a father.  
The meds he takes? Not for asthma.  
He wasn’t always having the time of his life with his mother, travelling. Not for long. The travels involved medical appointments more than he ever spoke about.  
Something happened on that beach when he was a child, during family vacations, and his brain suffered an injury. They were supposed to travel the world after that since both his mom and his step-dad could do business oversea, but something happened and Scott got sick. Really sick.  
His father was not a good man. The injury is older than Stiles thinks.  
Having made it 2 years oversea was a crazy feat. Doctors had advised otherwise.

Scott never really was the buff of healthy type. His bad memory, ability to walk further than a few blocks without his lungs being on fire, and his regular fainting sessions meant that to his fellow teenage boys, he was a wimp. Not that Stiles was much better, mind you. 

They both hadn’t been all that honest with each-other, had they?

No, Stiles’ honesty wasn’t much better at all. His mother was not all that Scott wanted her to be. Stiles’ girlfriend was, well, not anyone’s girlfriend, nevermind his. Stiles’ grades were awful since his mom’s death stole his only tutor. Stiles’ life was so boring he was actually excited to go to detention for a change of pace. Detention. Neither could even remember how they were at 12 together, or earlier, 10 years old, ready to take over the world.

They were both a pretty pitiful duo. Maybe they deserved each-other. The truth starts slipping out, but in teenage fashion, they both try holding some cards close to their heart. It would be decidedly uncool to expose themselves, after all. They would never let the other live it down.

The summer starts and they do their very best to keep themselves busy enough being stupid teenage boys to forget their issues. Seeing how long they had been apart, it works.

*

The summer heat was hanging in the humid air, curling Scott’s hair and making everyone mildly irritable at strangers.

He was swearing under his breath at the price of a Chirrut Imwe Star Wars figurine in a nerdy store being way outside his pocket money budget, now the sale was over. His old school friends reconnected with him, namely Isaac and Allison. He'd been saving up for weeks, after huffing at Isaac that he was definitely cool enough to know what Star Wars was. Spending the next month binge-watching it, and reading up on it, and asking Stiles about it, and listening to podcasts about it… he has attachment issues, alright? He wants to be cool. His piggy bank had grown so fast he felt like a millionaire.

Maybe he should be spending it on things he actually cares about. But no, teenage popularity won every time.

Anyway. They didn't have something that wasn't collection-worthy, so way out there price-wise. He walked to the grocery store instead, as a small comfort, to grab his favorite drink. Walking half an hour there, in the rain, to see they only had blueberry iced tea. Blueberry. Not peach. He bounces on his heels like a big, disgruntled child, grunting at life, a mistake that has him turn right into someone else’s cart. It almost tips over. He looks to his side and noticed he also disturbed a grocery worker in uniform.

All he can say is, “Oh God, I'm so sorry man,” at the old woman near him putting tuna cans and boxes of rice neatly on the aisles. “I mean, ma'am.” He reaches a hand out to her to help with the mess, missteps, and hits the funny bone in his arm on her rolling trolley full of merchandise. 

Too poor for a toy. No favorite drink. Clumsy. Arm pain. Today sucked.

He can already hear Stiles mocking his toddler fit, but his brain sees red.

As he squeaks like a mouse in pain, the nearest pizza boxes and frozen vegetable bags each explode. Not fall from shelves, no. They full-on explode, the heavy freezer doors straining to stay close with the force of it. It sounds like when you leave popcorn in the microwave for too long, or when someone plays with firecrackers in their backyard. The glass doors shake very badly, then their outsides slightly crack. There's very few glass shards on the ground, because damn those doors are thick, but he looks at his own hands and -- oh god he could have exploded, like, something dangerous. Like, a knife. He could've exploded a knife, into someone. Like, murder. Oh my god. He could've exploded a mirror, and those shatter so easy. Oh god. He had seen too many superheroes on the news to risk it.

She yells for security, and he bolts.

As it turns out, maybe Scott McCall did need anger management classes. For such a mousy guy, he certainly knew how to make a scene.

Disability doesn't make you a superhero, but it does mean he stands outside the store for fifteen minutes after, forgetting which bus to take home, and wastes 20$ on a taxi back home with his pocket money. All he feels is exhausted. Bone-deep tired. Struggling to find his inhalator in his shorts’ pockets, sweat pooling down his collarbones, turned speechless. He waves the taxi over when it nears the parking lot, but as soon as his hand's up, it's going down, and he's going down with it, the world spinning like a Christmas snowglobe.

He really does feel like he's a gangly stray dog, curled up, forgotten as his vision goes black, and the universe is a small, bored child poking and shaking him. Just to see what would happen. He’s already too far gone.

All he hears is Derek Hale's deep voice groan, “Oh god, not again,” and he's out like a light. His vision doesn't even go black, he just blanks out. He feels teleported out of consciousness. Gone.

*

Stiles Stilinski is on a mission. He's trying to settle, once and for all, the ultimate question:

Does he have, deep down, a capability for evil?

In layman's terms: Is he really just a psycho jerk?

Last time he asked himself that question, he stopped sleeping for days, and he sort of admitted himself into a psychiatric hospital. And by that he means, he broke in on a Saturday after school, around 4 o'clock, and laid in the lobby for five hours, stole a few stale mints from the glass bowl, talked to an inmate who couldn't sleep (she was nice) and gave her a granola bar, and promptly walked out the front door. Honestly, he told his dad he thought it was the Museum he worked at, and he never completely accepted that answer. But in all honesty? It looked basically the same. When you're heavily psychotic, unmedicated, sleep-deprived, and you don't have your contact lenses on. It's uncanny.

This time though, he's very much medicated, overslept past his alarm, and still just as psychotic, but that's not the point. He watched a horror movie last night. It kickstarted a weekend full of triggering himself into being more and more scared. And then, as it goes, on the TV while munching cereal, he saw a news story of a “mentally sick” guy who, out of nowhere, terrified his girlfriend. His girlfriend was fine, by the way, but he was just a creep. He, like, left fake blood on her doorstep, and pushed her down some stairs, and kidnapped her cat. It wasn't many, and she's fine, and Mr. Mittens is fine too, but that got him thinking. “An absolute psycho,” is what they called him. That word was also on one of his bullies's tongue when she saw him pop his anti-psychotics, and heard him talk to himself in the gym changing room. He wants to call it a slur, but it feels more upsetting if he calls it that. They still used his old name, to spite him, and honestly? That feels more like a slur. He really didn't need to add fuel to the fire, but here we go again. God, he wants to be homeschooled. If Erica and Boyd weren't there, he'd quit before finishing his last two years. His brain's so fast, he'd probably move faster in his studies if no one else was there to slow him down.

Anyway. He's 16 years old, and all he knows is that he has something society hates inside him, and he wants to get it out. Or give into it. Whichever. When you're 16, your idea of evil is, at best, a bad boy persona. Like stealing an Invader Zim beanie from Hot Topic. Or giving your dog the rest of your plate under the kitchen table. Or sitting in your dad's car, high on weed, pretending you're totally gonna drive it away. A psychotic kid is still just that: a dumb kid.

This is why he's sitting cross-legged right next to an escalator at the mall, staring at people going by. He's sort of tearing up, because to be completely honest with you he doesn't know what to do with his future. Or with his insane brain. Teens from school wave at him, used to his antics. Kids keep stopping by and poking his head. An old lady stops and asks if he's lost, and gives him an apple. The security guards don't look concerned in the slightest. Maybe he needs to look more like a monster. Like, with a baseball bat. With spikes on it.

Scott’s return had rattled his bones. It reminded him of how they both used to be, how life used to feel like a few years ago.  
;  
His mom hated his meds, even when she got sick. She said he was, and I quote, “giving into the crazy.” Nevermind his hormone blockers, that's a whole other can of beans. Well, mom, your son's not even good at being crazy. No one even bats an eye. Maybe I need like, eyeliner. Evil eyeliner. Like a pirate. A mean pirate.

This is where, in his high perched position over the Beacon Hills mall, long after the mall's closed -- he's really good at hiding, the security guards never doubt he's gone -- he sees it.

Shit is going down. 

His legs cramp up as he hides down further, sneaking glances when he can.

Someone has a bow? Someone's shooting, with a bow. What year is it again? 

There's a bunch of evil-doers, with actual masks, sitting in a... golf cart? He needs to film this, and he brings his phone up, but things go so fast. There's a girl with red hair in it, but her hair's floating around her head in slow-motion, like she's Medusa, or an angry mermaid. He can't see her face, or anything below her head, she's bending down to avoid what he thinks might be bullets. Girl #2 has long, curly hair has some kind of cat-girl outfit on -- which, neat! Good for her. He didn't think anyone could make cat outfits fit the superhero style, but she did it. Five stars. Up on the cart somehow, a taller girl with very straight, very shiny black hair, Girl #3, is shooting arrows at the speed of fucking light. Only one boy's among them as far as he knows: a very scrawny-looking guy with sloppy clown makeup on, just laughing, throwing whatever he can pick up from the shelves at their pursuers. That last one strikes him as random and out of place. Not his first pick for a disguise, that's for sure.

Then he sees him, falling from way up top:

Dark mask shaped into grumpy features, little ears on top, a cape behind, big boots.

Batman.

Motherfucking Batman is trailing behind a golf cart in the Beacon Hills mall at exactly -- he checks his watch, nonsensically -- 11:11 on a Saturday. Make a wish, Batman, he thinks idly. By the way he moves he seems angry, but he's not running or anything. He’s walking in long, confident strides. God it really is him, he confirms to himself, when Batman opens up his cape -- his wings -- and jumps down effortlessly many, many floors in one shot all the way down. Stiles is yelling. He does a superhero landing, of course he does. Holy shit. Then he has his hands on the cart, and he's lifting it into the air, and the tires are aimlessly rolling into nothing... except it was all a trap. They throw some sort of liquid into the Bat Legend's eyes and he's flinching backwards, and just in time he flies away right before the cart explodes. He swears Cat Girl was still in the cart, but seconds away she poked his nose, she booped Batman's nose, and just disappeared into thin air. Smiling. Batman crashes through the ceiling window, and in a flash he's gone.

Stiles is jumping up and down, screeching something inhuman in whatever emotion his mind chose to focus on, because there's a lot of feelings right now. Luckily or not they can't hear him, seeing as they're driving away furiously from... explosions? Except Blondie's throwing a smoke bomb at the general direction of whoever's left chasing, he wasn't looking, and the mall's suddenly floating with purple smoke. Suddenly Stiles can't breathe, he can't see either, and it's like poison in his lungs. He does what anybody is their right mind would do. Even in all his hyperactivity, he doesn't run towards them or tries to jump down the escalator in a cool guy move. Or yell. “Batman!” just one more time. Like an idiot. Like a civilian. Batman's got shit to do, and Stiles knows more about super-hero etiquette from comics and binge-watching news than the average teenage boy. He, for one, needs to just breathe. He takes his hearing aid off and pockets it, uselessly, not wanting it damaged.

He runs away without any shame. And yes, he's humming the Batman theme song because he can't help it, okay? He jumps up towards the exit and flops around the hallways like a gangly antelope, the way only a teenage boy can. His years of dancing his way sliding through highschool corridors finally help him out. Up until he's bashing into an inconveniently lowly-placed overpriced coffeeshop sign, half-jumps over it into a rack of clothes, which in retrospect was not very smart, considering said rack of clothes was right near the edge of the other escalator. He very pathetically rolls down them, somehow surviving that one, and bonks his head on an unfortunately placed food cart at the bottom.

He passes the hell out.

He comes back to himself covered in discounted shoes, but someone's carrying him up, up, up, and he feels like he's flying, and in his stupid, half-asleep state, he bats at them with his hand, and does a weak giggle, and passes out again. His dad is going to be so, so pissed, but he doesn't have it in him to care.

*

Except he wakes up and hears Scott, his best buddy Scott, had a seizure in the hospital bed next to his. And suddenly he does have it in him to care. More than just a little. He cares a whole lot. They both have so much to say the nurses have to sedate Scott so he can rest some more, and his dad reprimands him for sitting up too fast.

He can care about both Scott and Batman right now, he decides. They both need him. 

Mostly Scott though. Yeah, Scott wins this one.


End file.
